


Another Page

by You_Light_The_Sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Angst, Chinese Translation, Fluff, Libraries, Library AU, M/M, Translation Available, russian translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hate children," Sherlock spits out as Watson tries to soothe one of the little girls who started bawling like a banshee when Sherlock had jumped out of the curtains dressed as a skull.</p><p>Chinese Translation Available.</p><p>Russian Translation Available</p><p>Podfic Available.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Page

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ещё одна страница](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394385) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> For the Anon who wanted a library AU and some writer-Sherlock. This fill got too long so I posted it as a seperate thing. It's rather silly and OOC and I wasn't sure if I should post it on AO3 but I hope you like it!
> 
> Originally posted [ here](http://youlighttheskyfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/46369336751/sherlock-ficlet-another-page-sherlock-john)
> 
> Chinese Translation [ here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=3881&page=1&extra=#pid202505) by [ PapayaTwilight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaTwilight/pseuds/PapayaTwilight)

"I hate children," Sherlock spits out as Watson tries to soothe one of the little girls who started bawling like a banshee when Sherlock had jumped out of the curtains dressed as a skull.

Watson, the traitor, isn't even trying to hide his giggles. "Sorry. But, well, they did pelt you with those books for a reason. That costume is pretty terrifying to a group of six-year olds. Though I don't think Sally's mum was very pleased at finding all the picture books lying on the floor."

"It's _storytime, make-believe!_ They should be smart enough to deduce that I'm just a teenager in a suit! When I was their age, I already dismissed the existence of Father Christmas, the boogey-man _and_ the tooth fairy!"

"Wow, you do sound so very old, Sherlock. Whatever shall we do with the rest of the poor children who can't catch up to your intellect?" Watson asks, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, shut up. It's not my fault that all children are idiots."

"I dunno, I find them rather endearing," Watson shrugs, giving a smile to the little girl that he is holding. He tells her something about reading 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' to make her feel better and the girl's face lights up as she dashes off to go find it, telling her little friends that their favourite librarian is going to read them all a story.

It's disgusting how quickly people fall under the dumpy young medical student's charm, Sherlock thinks, as he regards John's old jumper and jeans with an upturned nose.

But then Watson turns around and he says, "Thank you," to him even though he ruined storytime with his attempts to make the session more exciting with his skulls. And Watson is genuine, so genuine and pleased and content that it hurts to look at him--

"Of course," Sherlock sneers, cleaning up the rest of the books on the carpet (he can see how Watson cringes at some of the ruined pages, folded corners and dirt stains on the covers.)

He wishes he could hate Watson for being so ordinary and normal but he _can't_ because Watson is anything but.

-

It starts as a plan to "fix" Sherlock's latest act of truancy. It's an attempt to distract Sherlock from reverting back to drugs after another year at rehab. Frankly, Sherlock is tired of it all, of attending University many years too young and listening to his so-called family yell at him for not fitting into a neat little box where they can label him and force him to do their bidding.

The world is too boring and dull. Only the drugs give him a satisfying high and now he's been without them for several months. The world is as dull as it was before. Sometimes he hates it, for not giving him the puzzles that his brain needs. He hates that he hasn't turned eighteen yet, that he can't escape his family's estate to pursue his own desires.

Mycroft decides that several hours of community service might do him some good.

Naturally, they place him in a library as a "page boy" or volunteer where he must spend eight hours a day shelving books and doing other menial tasks that the other librarians are too lazy to do.

Sherlock expects to hate it right away.

But then he meets the young librarian-to-be (and medical student) Watson. Then he's told that he's brilliant and amazing and Sherlock's not sure, but somehow he gets his first friend.

-

"You're a medical student," Sherlock says during their lunch break. They're at Angelo's again, eating some spaghetti while Sherlock lists out deductions about the people around them (Watson loves that game) and sometimes Watson tells Sherlock some amusing stories about his sister or his times at parties in medical school.

"Well yes, so you've told me when we first met," Watson smiles.

"Why are you also training to be a librarian?" Sherlock demands. "You're practically a doctor already. What need is there to pursue this sort of career?"

Watson shrugs, "I had free time. There was room for me to take some extra night courses at a collage, apply for a Master of Library Sciences as well... I thought I'd go for it. Besides, Sally's mum knows me."

"Oh I'm sure that there's more to the story than _that_."

Watson looks away, pink tinting his cheeks. "There's no hiding anything from you, is there?" he says fondly. "Well I love books. I've always loved them ever since I was a kid. I liked how it felt when you first opened a page and you were just... pulled into a world with people just like you, characters who could be your friends and you could just... forget... for a while, that your own life wasn't that great at the time. Made me feel... a little less alone."

Sherlock sees that in the way that Watson tenses when people touch him. In the careful and guarded way that Watson speaks to adults (but never the children) and how Watson is distant whenever someone asks about his family.

He thinks to his own childhood. Of taunts of "freak" and "monster," of years sitting alone at lunch and turning to his little skull, wishing it could talk back. He thinks of his little chemistry set, how he lost himself in scientific literature and puzzles, how he feels more comfortable in a lab or a morgue than he does anywhere else.

It makes his chest hurt and Sherlock glares at his fingers. This exercise in empathy is doing him no good.

But then he glances at Watson, sees the far-off smile on his face, the soft look in the would-be-librarian's eyes as he talks of his books.

"I like sharing that," Watson says, "I like sharing other books with people that I've never met. I like sharing the adventures and comforting stories that I've read with others, I like thinking that they might feel the same things I did when they read those words. It's just nice to think that with one stranger's words, all penned and printed in a simple volume, thousands of human beings can all be connected in the same emotions when they get captured by that very story. It's amazing."

Sherlock doesn't say anything in return. He can't. He's too caught up in wondering how he could ever put the same enchanted expression on Watson's face, too busy wondering if his words and deductions ever have the same effect.

-

(They do.)

-

Maybe it was hearing Watson praise him and treat him as a human being. Maybe it was having someone to laugh with about different crime scenes on the news and maybe it was finally have someone who seemed genuinely pleased to see him every day.

And maybe it was watching Watson bring smiles to everyone in the library, hearing him bring a story to life when he reads aloud to his attentive audience at storytime.

Whatever it is, it makes Sherlock want to pull out Watson's voice and bottle it in his skull Billy so that it is his alone. It makes him want to steal Watson's eyes so that they look at him only. It makes him want to dress up in silly costumes to make Watson pleased, makes him actually bother to interact with other children, makes him come back every day long after his punishment is over.

He wants to keep John but he doesn't know how.

He wants to taste him and feel him and run around with him, feeling London all around him, Holmes and Watson solving crimes as it should be--

-

"You're leaving."

Watson is holding a cardboard box stuffed with his puppets and picture books, with crafts for the children and bottles of glitter. He looks at Sherlock regretfully.

"I have to. My mum's ill. I need to support my family, get a better job."

"This _is_ a better job!" Sherlock shouts, not caring about Watson's alcoholic sister or his sick mother, not caring about any of it. This is Watson's library and it always will be. The children need him. Who will tell them stories? Who will paint his face all green for them on St. Patrick's day and dress the children's area up in paper snowflakes when it's Christmas time? Who will smile when Sherlock enters the room with another request for books on poison and hum quietly when he's shelving books? Who will help him forget the awful tediousness (and the glares, the judging glares) of University? Who?

"Stay," says Sherlock. "I need you, please stay."

Tears streak down Watson's face. Of course the idiot would be broken up about this decision. The library is his life.

"I'm going back to being a doctor, Sherlock, to support my mum. I can't come back. The job's out of London, in the country."

A doctor, Sherlock thinks. Watson would--will--be brilliant at it. Saving lives...

"You're going to be brilliant, you hear me, Sherlock?" Watson is saying now. "I'm just so sorry I won't be able to be here to see it. But if you want to write to me--"

"Of course I will," Sherlock snaps, holding on to whatever connection he can have with him. "You're my librarian, John, what would I do without you?"

John laughs, shaking his head, "I don't know... maybe blow up the library and terrorize the city in your skull costume?"

"Oh shut up," he says but they both know that he doesn't mean it.

He never wants John to be quiet.

-

They exchange emails every day. John about the boring and asinine things, the ordinary details described with flowery prose and John-like phrases. Sherlock saves each one on his computer and memorizes them.

Every month, John sends Sherlock a new book. Anything that might catch Sherlock's interest from how to keep bees to the lives of modern-day pirates. Sherlock never knows what to send John in return. He keeps tabs on the library and lets John know about the status of the children but other than that, Sherlock doesn't know how to send anything else. Any fiction book that Sherlock reads doesn't seem good enough. Nothing seems good enough for his John.

So Sherlock writes a story.

He can picture John making comments about Sherlock's bland and straightforward way of writing so often that he's scrapped over twenty drafts already. He's not sure how to write anything worthwhile and it annoys him because he's a genius (and brilliant, hasn't John always said so?) The words should come easily. He should just _know_ what to say next.

But he doesn't. Not really.

He has over a hundred unfinished letters to John, all asking him to come back. But he doesn't send them.

Sherlock crumples yet another draft of his story and tries again.

And again.

-

The year Sherlock graduates, no letters come. Nothing.

He'll get the books still but no letters.

It's only after he bothers Mycroft for information that he learns that John's mother has died and his sister has gone to rehab.

Sherlock steals one of his brother's cars (because it's fun and he can) and drives all the way to Sussex, stories and stubborn Watson-grief be damned.

-

"You're here," John blinks at the doorway.

"Yes, obvious. Now pack your bags, we're going back to London," Sherlock snaps.

"Um, what...?"

"I'm not leaving you to sulk on your own. You're going to live with me in London. I found a nice flat we should be able to flatshare. The landlady's nice, you will like her--"

"Sherlock, I can't--"

"Please," he rolls his eyes, "you shouldn't be alone."

Maybe it's because John clearly hasn't slept well in weeks or because the grief has numbed his friend but John nods dumbly, walking mechanically to his room to get out an old suitcase.

The drive back is silent, so silent.

-

Sherlock gets a job as a consultant at Scotland Yard. He helps John settle into 221B but doesn't push very often at John, who still seems numb in his grieving. But Sherlock does drag John to their old library. Sally's mum welcomes John back with open arms, telling him how Sally has become a police officer now and is always complaining about Sherlock (Sally's mum makes sure to slap Sherlock a good many times for disrespecting her daughter on the job) and how the new children will love him.

It's the first time that Sherlock's seen John smile in a year.

John gets a part time job there and Sherlock doesn't stop him. That night, they read Shakespeare to each other in ridiculous accents and then watch a couple of Bond films for Sherlock to critique.

It's just like old times.

-

Months go by and they settle into a routine. John works in the mornings to entertain the preschool classes that come to visit the library but his weekends are free. He helps Sherlock with his cases in the afternoons if there's a crime scene to run off to. In the times when there's no work, they read together and make fun of badly written vampire-romance novels and anything involving love triangles.

Sherlock wants and he watches as he always does. And sometimes, if he's lucky, he will grab John's hand for a criminal chase and they won't let go.

-

Sherlock comes back late after examining a few cadavers with Molly. He sees John reading a crumpled notepad with an awed expression on his face.

He knows what it is right away. "That's my story."

John swallows slowly, "...Yes..."

"I thought I threw it out months ago--"

"It was under your bed when I was vacuuming. Thought the flat could use some spring cleaning. I had no idea that you..."

Sherlock takes the notepad out of John's hands, "It's nothing."

"But Sherlock--"

"It's _nothing_. Just a story.”

“No!” John tugs his wrist back, looking at him desperately, “It’s not just a story. It’s _never_ just a story. Sherlock, what does this mean? Why did you write it?”

He thinks of lonely hours spent staring at blank lines, of trying to articulate his thoughts on John Watson in some kind of classified system but not being able to. He tries to gather what he knows right now, what he feels about John reading his stupid words (a rush of possessive joy mixed with fear and a want, a desperate, needing _want—_ ) and Sherlock can’t say it, he can’t, there are no words—

His lips crash down against John’s until his hands are up and cradling the back of John’s head and then John’s hands come up and pull him down and this is it, this is it—

There are no words.

-

_Once upon a time there was a librarian who wore the dumpiest jumpers and practically lived and breathed tea. He dressed up as Father Christmas and a leprechaun to make children smile and when he read stories aloud, the words seemed to dance off of the pages and dream themselves to life just to hear him sing._

_And he was wonderful._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Another Page](https://archiveofourown.org/works/790249) by [figsoclock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figsoclock/pseuds/figsoclock)




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